<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>over the mossy roots by WingedQuill</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022122">over the mossy roots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill'>WingedQuill</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the children of flowers and leaves [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(for now) - Freeform, (not physical just a lot of manipulation), Amnesia, Bad Parent Visenna, Child Abuse, Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt No Comfort, Kidnapping, Mind Manipulation, POV Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Unhappy Ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:28:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciri has been running too hard for too long. When Visenna stumbles across her in the woods, it's no wonder her mind welcomes in the warm, comforting feeling of her magic. It's no wonder she bends to her suggestions, becomes the perfect daughter Visenna has dreamed of since she was forced to get rid of her last child. </p><p>And, when Geralt finds them, it's no wonder he's horrified.</p><p>(Written for Geralt Whump Week Day 1: Ostracism)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Visenna, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Visenna</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the children of flowers and leaves [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>166</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>over the mossy roots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>CW for pretty serious (magically aided) manipulation and emotional abuse of a child. Also some fairly in-depth descriptions of an adult in a lot of pain.</p><p>So! I enjoyed the concept of druid!Geralt and messed-up-parent!Visenna so much that I decided to make my day 1 entry for Geralt Whump Week a follow-up to "under the aspen tree." Go read that if you want a better background for this, but if you don't wanna, just know that Geralt has some druid magic and that his name used to be Aspen.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ciri is so tired of being wary. Of looking at every stranger like they wish to rip her heart out.</p><p>It’s a necessity to keep her alive, she <em>knows </em>that. If even the familiar is dangerous—she still dreams of Mousesack twisting into a monster—then the unfamiliar is even more so. The Nilfgaardians wouldn’t even need to disguise themselves, they could just send a soldier to pose as one of the dozens of well-meaning women that have tried to adopt her.</p><p>And yet, part of her—a very large part of her—is begging the rest of her to just take the offer. To let herself be someone’s daughter again, to live in a simple, warm house, and take whatever name her new mother might want to give. To stop running, to stop looking for a man she suspects doesn’t want her. To be <em>safe.</em></p><p>Right now, she’s huddled in her makeshift camp in the forest, shivering as the wind skitters across her back on icy feet. Her fingers are growing numb, but she can’t risk a fire—not so close to the nearest town. So she keeps them clenched into fists in Dara’s gloves, tucked under her armpits. Hopefully that’ll be enough to stave off frostbite.</p><p>Something growls.</p><p>She snaps her head up, staring intently into the undergrowth. Four pairs of yellow eyes stare back at her.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>She should have built that fire after all.</p><p>She stumbles to her feet and takes one step backward, then another, not breaking eye contact with the wolves. She fears that, if she does, they will take the opportunity to attack.</p><p>
  <em>Breathe. Stay calm. Don’t let them smell your fear.</em>
</p><p>Sweat pricks at the back of her neck, pools in her gloves. One of the wolves slinks forward, slipping from the undergrowth, followed by his fellows. He’s a monstrous thing, gray pelt stuck through with twigs and burrs, the fur around his mouth already matted with blood. He’s just eaten then, but he’s clearly still hungry, drool dripping out of his mouth as he stalks towards Ciri.</p><p>He snarls and Ciri trips over a tree root, jolting her wrists as she tries to catch herself on the muddy, mossy earth. The wolf seems oddly satisfied as it moves towards her, like it can taste her panic in the air. Easy prey.</p><p>She reaches inside her, tugging at the part of her soul that tore a rift in the Earth, that fell the boys that tried to hurt her, but it feels stifled, buried deep beneath something else. Something <em>stronger.</em></p><p>“That’s enough, dearies,” a voice says. It’s a woman’s voice, clear and calm, and that <em>something else </em>shifts over Ciri, rolling across her mind like a warm wave. Her limbs feel heavy, fuzzy with sleep, the aches of five months on the run sliding away from her as easily as a shed coat.</p><p>The woman moves forward, into Ciri’s line of sight. She walks through the forest as if it’s her court, and it bends to her like a loyal subject. Roots moving away from her feet, clearing the path between her and the wolves. The wolves that are no longer, snarling, bloodthirsty beasts, but docile puppies, whining and wagging their tails as she kneels down before them.</p><p>She’s never seen this kind of magic before. Nature magic, yes, from the women of Brokilon, from Mousesack. But never something this warm and weighty.</p><p>“Hush now,” the woman says, stroking the lead wolf’s nose. “Hush.”</p><p>The wolf goes to the ground, closing his eyes with a huff as sleep rushes over him. His pack follows suit, and soon, the woman is surrounded by snoring wolves.</p><p>The woman turns her head over her shoulder, locking eyes with Ciri.</p><p>“They’ll sleep for a while,” she says. “Would you like to pet one?”</p><p>The warmth slips through and around her brain, enveloping her in a feeling of safety so full and complete that she thinks she’ll cry. She doesn’t trust herself to speak so she just nods, slipping forward to crouch down next to the lead wolf, the one with the bloody muzzle.</p><p>She wonders if he ate some other little girl without a druid to protect her.</p><p>“These ones aren’t scared of people,” the woman murmurs as Ciri rests her hand on the wolf’s head. It’s softer than she imagined it would be. “They see them as prey.”</p><p>Ciri knows what happens to wild animals that aren’t scared of people.</p><p>“Are you going to kill them?” she asks.</p><p>“Oh no. It’s not their fault they’re hungry. Not their fault they were born with the taste for blood.” She keeps stroking the wolf’s head. A glow forms at her fingertips, the sickly yellow of half-rotted flowers.</p><p>“This will keep both them and the humans safe,” she explains as the glow covers the wolf from nose to lazily-flopping tail. Ciri feels like she’s being lectured by one of her tutors. “It’ll cause them pain to be within fifty feet of a person. They’ll turn and run when they feel the pain, and while it might hurt them a bit, it’ll cause less death and suffering overall. Does that make sense?”</p><p>Ciri nods.</p><p>“Good,” the woman says. She moves her hand to the next wolf. “I’ll teach you how to do this someday. You should be able to. I can sense your power. It is strong, but misguided at the moment.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” The nearly-forgotten wariness is back, shoving insistently through the artificial safety.</p><p>The woman smiles, but there is sadness in her eyes. She brings her free hand up, stroking her fingers through Ciri’s hair, and Ciri can’t stop herself from flinching. She half expects the yellow glow to cover her too, a punishment for her chaos.</p><p>“When you’re in danger, your first instinct is to lash out,” the woman says. “To kill. There is no need for this.”</p><p><em>They tried to kill me first, </em>Ciri wants to protest, to defend herself. But her tongue feels very heavy in her mouth.</p><p>“I’ll take care of you,” the woman says, and then her arms are around Ciri, hoisting her into the air. Panic coils in Ciri’s throat, but it is quickly soothed away by <em>safe, safe, safe. </em>“It’s been so long since I’ve had a child in my house.”</p><p>“But I have to find—”</p><p>Who does she need to find again?</p><p>“You just need a place to rest,” the woman says. “To grow. To become something wonderful.”</p><p>She’s forgetting something. Something important, slipping further and further away from her brain as <em>safety, warmth, home, comfort, quiet, quiet, QUIET, </em>slips in.</p><p>The woman turns her head to look at the place that Ciri had fallen.</p><p>“I am Visenna,” she says. “But you will call me Ma. And you…”</p><p>“I’m C—”</p><p>“I will call you Moss,” she says decisively, shifting Ciri—Moss—<em>Ciri, </em>her name is <em>Ciri, </em>she won’t forget that too, she <em>can’t </em>forget that too—so that her weight rests against her hip.</p><p>“Why are you doing this?” Ciri manages to ask, squirming slightly in Visenna's grip as the warmth floods her brain. She knows she won’t be able to hold out against it much longer.</p><p>“I told you,” Visenna says, running a finger over Ciri’s cheek, almost lovingly. “It’s been so long since I had a child.”</p><p>Ciri sleeps.</p><p>***</p><p>Moss wakes up.</p><p>She stretches lazily, staring at the first rays of sun as they play over her bedroom wall. Something is lingering in her brain, a dream of a forest, a fire, a pair of flashing golden eyes. She shakes her head, blinking back the last bits of sleep and readying herself to start the day. Ma said she could start learning taming magic today, start coaxing restless piglets into contented slumber. She can’t wait.</p><p>She climbs out of bed and heads into the kitchen, where Ma is already up and slicing up thick hunks of bread.</p><p>“Morning, Ma,” she yawns, snatching an apple out of the bowl on the table.</p><p>“Good morning, Moss,” Ma says, dropping a kiss onto Moss’s hair. Her touch is soft and gentle, her voice is soft and gentle, her <em>magic </em>is soft and gentle. And part of Moss thinks that that isn’t quite right, that her Ma is supposed to be burning violet eyes and fire and fierce protectiveness.</p><p>But that isn’t right.</p><p>She’s lived here all her life.</p><p>Must just be the remnants of a dream.</p><p>***</p><p>She’s happy.</p><p>***</p><p>She’s safe.</p><p>***</p><p>But some days she feels like she’s not supposed to be happy and safe. She’s supposed to be grieving something, something greater than a single person’s death, something huge and all-encompassing. She’s supposed to be terrified of something equally vast. Something coming for her.</p><p>It makes no sense. She’s just a simple druid. She has made no enemies, has lost no family, has no reason to be sad and scared in this warm, bright forest.</p><p>And yet she is.</p><p>***</p><p>Ma teaches her how to coax the flowers out of the earth, how to calm piglets and wolves alike, how to soothe away small storms, how to encourage trees to grow into useful shapes—houses and walls and the like. She cultivates a gentle kind of power, and the urge to <em>scream, </em>to <em>run, </em>to <em>get away</em> (and why does she feel that anyway, in her own home?) lessens day by day.</p><p>***</p><p>There’s a knock at their door.</p><p>A man standing there, all shining white hair and fierce yellow eyes. He balks at the sight of Ma, staring at her like she’s a monster, like she’s dangerous. Moss bristles in indignation, glaring at the man as she comes to stand by Ma’s side.</p><p>(Part of her hollers in triumph, that someone else recognizes Ma for who she is.)</p><p>“Can I help you, Sir Witcher?” Ma asks, looping an arm around Moss’s shoulders. There’s frost threaded through her voice. She noticed the man’s stare too.</p><p>“I’m here for Ciri,” he growls and Moss—</p><p>That name sparks something in her, clamps down on her heart until it hurts, until she’s biting down on her fist to stifle a sob. Ma gently steers Moss—<em>that isn’t your name, and that <strong>isn’t </strong>your mother, wake up—</em>behind her, putting herself between her and the man.</p><p>A wave of warm safety rushes over Moss and she leans into it with a sigh, letting go of the fear that flooded her system at the sound of a name that she’s quickly forgetting. The man shakes his head like he’s shooing away a fly.</p><p>“Stop that,” he says.</p><p>“You’re strong,” Ma laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Even for a witcher.”</p><p>“I always have been,” the man says. His voice is shaking, no matter how tough he tries to sound. “Give up the girl.”</p><p>“I have more than mind magic you know.” She steps forward, but the man doesn’t flinch.</p><p>“So do I,” he says evenly. It’s not just his voice that’s shaking now. Fine tremors run up and down his body, making him tremble all over except for his right hand, which rests steady against the hilt of his sword.</p><p>“You won’t take my child,” Ma says. “I’ll die before I let that happen.”</p><p>And the man laughs. It’s bitter. Wounded.</p><p>“That’s a new tune for you,” he says. His knuckles are turning white. “How long will you want to keep her then, <em>Visenna?” </em>He spits Ma’s name like it’s poison. “A year? Five years? Until she gets a mind of her own?”</p><p>Around them, the trees that make up the framework of their house creak in warning. Ma stretches out her arms, trying to cover as much of the space in front of Moss as she can.</p><p>
  <em>Run. Go to him. He’s here to save you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>SafetyWarmth<strong>QuietQuietQUIET </strong></em>
</p><p>She stays still. This feels more like a dreams than her dream had.</p><p>“You’re breaking her,” the man says. He sounds close to tears. “You’re shattering her mind, surely you must realize that—”</p><p>“I’m helping her,” Ma insists. “Her chaos is destructive. Dangerous—”</p><p>“As is mine,” The trees shake more violently. Three of them break free of their contorted (<em>wrong, wrong, they shouldn’t <strong>grow </strong>like that) </em>positions and curl inwards, branches snapping threateningly.</p><p>Ma stretches her fingers up and the trees fall still. Her shoulders heave as she takes in the man.</p><p>“So what will you do with her when her chaos escapes your shackles?” The man storms forward. Branch after branch peels away from the ceiling. “Take her off to market? Leave her alone by the side of the road?”</p><p>Leaves spin around them like a gathering storm and Moss doesn’t even know how to counter this kind of power. More than that, she doesn’t know if she <em>wants </em>to counter this kind of power. Because Ma isn’t denying the man’s accusations.</p><p>“Aspen,” she breathes instead.</p><p>“Not my name anymore.”</p><p>The branches descend.</p><p>Moss thinks, for a moment, that she’s about to watch Ma die. Fear and relief burn through her, so intermingled she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Her head throbs like something is tearing apart her brain piece by piece. Just when their home is about to pierce through Ma’s heart, she waves her hand and the branches freeze in the air.</p><p>She’s trembling, clearly straining against the man’s power, but she holds fast.</p><p>“You want me dead,” she whispers.</p><p>“I kill monsters,” the man says. He draws his sword. There’s pain on his face, stark and stricken, flashing in his eyes and twisting down his mouth. “And I’m sorry that you are one, but you are.”</p><p>“I’m not the one trying to pull apart a mother and her daughter,” Ma says, and she twists her right hand in a familiar pattern.</p><p>“No,” Moss says, as her hand glows sickly yellow. She’s seen this spell used before, on countless wolves and bears and kikimora. The thought of using it on a person is just—it’s unimaginable. Unthinkably cruel. <em>“No!”</em></p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>QUIET.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Her mouth snaps shut and she falls to her knees, the pain peaking in her head. The man growls and charges forward, swinging his sword at Ma’s head. She ducks under the swing and darts past him, brushing her hand across her chest as she goes.</p><p>The glow spreads over his skin, eating up every inch of him, and he drops to the ground with a scream, his limbs jerking uncontrollably. He curls in on himself, writhing and gasping like a dying fish, the scream still piercing the air.</p><p>“Wh—Wha—?” he chokes, reaching for his fallen sword. Ma takes a step closer to him and his hand curls into a useless claw. His question cuts off as he chokes on air, curling even tighter as agony wracks through him. Moss can practically see the pain shuddering over his skin, wave after wave, his muscles twisting and jerking against it.</p><p>Her mother did this.</p><p>Her mother cursed a human being to feel pain whenever he goes near another person.</p><p>Her mother has effectively cut this man off from the rest of the world.</p><p>Moss is going to be sick. She’s sure of it.</p><p>“I had to,” Ma—no, <em>Visenna, </em>this woman doesn’t deserve the title of mother—says, cupping the man’s cheek in her hand. He wails as soon as she touches him, jerking backward in a feeble attempt to get away from the pain. “You’re dangerous. You’d murder your own mother. You can’t be trusted around people.”</p><p>“Wha—?”</p><p>“Fifty feet,” Visenna says, getting to her feet. Her voice is clinical. Instructive. “That’s how close you can get to humans, before the burning starts. It’ll keep you and me safe, both. And keep others safe from you as well.”</p><p>“Y—You—” He’s trembling, and Moss isn’t sure if it’s from pain or fear. She wants to go to him, comfort him, but that will only make it worse.</p><p>“I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But we wouldn’t be here if you’d just listened to me, all those years ago.”</p><p>She sighs, regretfully but not mournfully, like she’s discovered one of her plants—not even her <em>favorite </em>plant<em>—</em>is infested with aphids.</p><p>“Be well, Aspen,” she says, ignoring his earlier insistence that that isn’t his name. Ignoring the fact that he could <em>hardly </em>expect to be well with this kind of curse, that killing him would have been kinder.</p><p>She turns around to pick up Moss, and for the first time in a long time, Moss struggles against her grip.</p><p>“No!” she screams, as Visenna hoists her into the air and carries her towards the door. “No, no, you have to undo it, you can’t just <em>leave </em>him like this, you fucking—”</p><p>“Language,” Visenna says idly as a wave of <em>safetywarmthquietquietquiet </em>rushes over her. She fights it with everything she has, thrashing against it like a fish caught in a net. But Visenna has always been stronger than her, will always <em>be </em>stronger than her, and she can feel her mind slipping out of her control.</p><p>And then, another command. One that she dimly realizes she’s felt before.</p><p>
  <em>Forget.</em>
</p><p>The man lies on the floor of their house, shaking and shuddering as the pain pours through him.</p><p>
  <em>Forget.</em>
</p><p>He turns his head to the side and meets Moss’s gaze with panicked golden eyes.</p><p>
  <em>FORGET.</em>
</p><p>And she remembers. The White Wolf. Geralt of Rivia. Her <em>destiny.</em></p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>FORGET. SLEEP.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Ciri closes her eyes.</p><p>***</p><p>Moss wakes up.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rough ending for our boy, I know, but there will be at least one more part to this series! (tentative name: in a field of buttercups)  So he (maybe) doesn't have to hurt forever. And Ciri will (maybe) wind up with parents that actually love her.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>